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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26514991">(Almost) Anything</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowerofnettles/pseuds/flowerofnettles'>flowerofnettles</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Afternoon Naps, And good at it, Cute Rosamund Mary "Rosie" Watson, Fluff, John and Sherlock are dads(tm), M/M, Oneshot, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sweet, just pure fluff, who knew</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 03:35:14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,164</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26514991</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowerofnettles/pseuds/flowerofnettles</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Sherlock’s predictions were almost always right, but (despite his Theory<sup>TM</sup> about simultaneously connecting to all streams of logic at once or whatever it was) he couldn’t predict perfectly</i> every <i>time, and thankfully not when it really mattered.</i></p>
<p>John comes home from a long day at work and finds Sherlock and Rosie asleep with a children's storybook on the nightstand. Just a sweet moment in the flat. Friendship or pre-slash depending on how you interpret it.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes &amp; John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, depending on if you consider it slash or not, it's up to you - Relationship, or - Relationship</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>69</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>(Almost) Anything</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>A couple of my friends and I started a Sherlock rewatch recently, hence my being like three years late writing this. x)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <i>“I have theorized before that if one could attenuate to every available data stream in the world simultaneously it would be possible to anticipate and deduce <b>almost anything</b>.”<br/>-The Lying Detective</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Unlike a certain self-absorbed ass of a detective, John was usually careful not to slam the front door and startle Mrs. Hudson, especially at this time on a Thursday when she’d be sitting with a cuppa watching her favorite Italian soap. This time, however, the knob slipped from his weary hand and he wasn’t fast enough to catch it—or rather, by the time his brain decided it might have enough energy after all, it was too late and the bang made him wince in the otherwise perfect stillness of the entryway. As he climbed the creaking stairs, he kept his eyes on the lower floor and was relieved to hear the dubbed voices drift dimly from the telly somewhere down there without disturbance.</p>
<p>With a small sigh, he made it to the top and moved straight through the surprisingly silent flat to his own room. Fifteen minutes to wash up and put on a soft t-shirt and sweats, and then the only thing he wanted more than sleep was to see his little girl’s wide pretty eyes.</p>
<p>As he peered into the sitting room and found it still lifeless, his brow furrowed and he wondered where Sherlock might’ve taken her at this time of the afternoon. Worry whispered across his mind for only a second before vanishing again; when he’d first moved back into the flat, he was skeptical about how this was all going to work and fully prepared to move back out again after their little one-month trial run. Sherlock had been insistent that he was fully prepared for whatever might come of having a one-and-a-half year old tucked away in the tiny third-floor room opposite John’s, but John himself wasn’t sure what to expect after having lived with both Sherlock <i>and</i> said one-and-a-half year old separately.</p>
<p>Even after he’d said so, the world’s most stubborn amateur detective still wouldn’t take no for an answer, so John had sold his little suburban house with all its potent, if brief, history and packed up what would fit into a moving van. They agreed on one month, and if it wasn’t working—if Sherlock found a screeching baby too big of a distraction (likely) or if the baby touched anything even potentially toxic at any time (also likely)—that would be the end of it and John would move somewhere nearby instead.</p>
<p>That had been three months ago now, and it would be a lie to say that John Watson wasn’t shocked once again by his extraordinary best friend. As he moved through the sitting room, he passed the evidence of Sherlock’s word—chemicals were pushed back on high shelves when not in use, weapons of any kind were hidden away out of sight, and even the gruesome crime scene photographs that had once covered every surface were stacked neatly into childproofed drawers. The only thing that hadn’t changed was the random body parts in the fridge or microwave, but even those were carefully sealed up at all times to prevent contaminating the baby food that now littered the kitchen. </p>
<p>And wonder of all wonders, Sherlock hadn’t complained once, about anything. In fact, if John were to read between the lines a bit, he almost sensed a weird sort of joy from Sherlock about Rosie’s presence in the flat. Sherlock had never said so of course, but there was something to be said of a man who absentmindedly scooped up a baby to hold on his narrow hip for no good reason while he wandered about making tea or straightening things. (John had tried commenting on it once, as he watched Sherlock set Rosie down again with hardly a glance as the kettle beeped, but the too-busy-to-be-bothered detective had seemed as if he had no idea what John was talking about, so the subject had been dropped.)</p>
<p>Sherlock was wild and ridiculous and thoughtless as a hurricane on his best days, but all of that went somehow on hold when Rosie was in his care. He was never anything but attentive with her, as much as with one of his most important cases, and so John’s initial nervousness had faded away into a stronger trust than ever before.</p>
<p>On a whim, he went through the dim kitchen and down the hall; having assumed that Sherlock had gone out and taken Rosie with him, he was surprised to find the bed occupied. His slumbering baby girl was nestled in amongst several pillows, her pink onesie—one of many from Molly—standing out bright against the steel-toned blues of Sherlock’s bedsheets. The detective himself lay on his side close by, a blanket pulled haphazardly around his legs and his sock-clad feet sticking out at the bottom. A colorful storybook rested precariously on the edge of the nightstand, having been tossed there after its intended audience had fallen asleep, no doubt to the lull of her caregiver’s low and soothing voice.</p>
<p>Unable to stop a bemused smile, John moved to sit carefully on the edge of the mattress and drew the back of one finger along the pudgy arm of his sleeping girl. At his quiet movements, there was a sharp inhale from the other side of the bed and then Sherlock’s eyes flickered open to meet his.</p>
<p>At the sight of that familiar silvery blue, John suddenly felt something <i>un</i>familiar in the atmosphere. It took him a heartbeat to figure out what it was, then it hit him. Peace, that’s what, just pure sweet comfortable peace. That wasn’t to say that things weren’t normally peaceful these days; aside from the obvious case-related excitement that comes with living with the world’s only consulting detective, they’d found a routine to their existence that could almost be called domestic. This was the first time they’d lived together since those few weeks after Mary had shot Sherlock and revealed her true identity, the first time it had been permanent since Sherlock’s two-year disappearing act, and everything they’d gone through since then had strengthened their bond exponentially. These days they were more comfortable in each other’s presence than most married couples, he’d wager, and that left a warm satisfaction in his soul nothing could take away.</p>
<p>This was new, though. The atmosphere in this room, at this moment, felt more domestic than anything so far, and yet its newness didn’t make it strange. Though it was occasionally easy to forget due to Sherlock’s continuing coldness with the outside world, John didn’t really see his friend as anything but perfectly, warmly human anymore. And right now he was smiling so softly in the indirect afternoon light that even those icy eyes were more human than ever.</p>
<p>John could feel the easy understanding in his own half-smile, as his eyes followed the line of Sherlock’s long arm to where it almost touched Rosie’s on the fluffed pillow. She really was such a beautiful girl, he thought for the thousandth time, and then Sherlock’s unusually quiet voice finally broke the silence.</p>
<p>“You look tired.”</p>
<p>And there it was, the domesticity, wrapped up in a blunt observation that was so typical of him.</p>
<p>“Yeah,” he answered, an almost-whisper, as he played carefully with Rosie’s tiny fingers, “fifteen hours listening to people cough through a stethoscope will do that.”</p>
<p>The comfortable silence carried on for only a few more heartbeats before he asked,</p>
<p>“How was she?”</p>
<p>“Good. I’ve answered emails all day while she watched that atrocious animated sheep DVD. Solved a murder and a robbery without leaving the flat, by the way. Then she crawled around in here for a bit before finally settling in. I didn’t expect her to fall asleep.”</p>
<p>“She didn’t sleep well last night for some reason.”</p>
<p>Sherlock hummed a reply, his own eyes betraying that he hadn’t either. Then, with the idea of planning the remainder of his day, John asked,</p>
<p>“Did she eat?”</p>
<p>“Yeah.”</p>
<p>“Did you?”</p>
<p>“Yep.”</p>
<p>John ignored the challenging little pop at the end of the word, knowing after all this time Sherlock was used to his concerned badgering and the annoyance was more routine than anything. Besides, five years ago the answer would still have been “no,” so he liked to think his nagging was doing some good.</p>
<p>“Okay. Good.”</p>
<p>This time the quietness was broken by the gentle sound of his own yawn, which forced tears into his eyes with its ferocity. He sniffed and rubbed them away, only realizing when he pressed his palms to his eyes how exhausted he truly felt.</p>
<p>“You should lie down.” Sherlock shifted, pulling the undisturbed Rosie towards him a bit on the mattress, leaving a good space open on the other side. “Here.”</p>
<p>Though he really wasn’t too bothered by the innocent suggestion, John must’ve looked a bit surprised that Sherlock was the one suggesting it, because the other man added with a shrug of genuine unconcern,</p>
<p>“I’m going to get up in a minute anyway to finish writing Lestrade about that blackmailer case in Brixton. He doesn’t need an answer until tomorrow but you know how useless the police force is on the weekends; if I tell him tomorrow it won’t get done for another three days.”</p>
<p>John smiled in appreciation and, deciding not to make a thing out of it if Sherlock wasn’t, lay down amenably on Rosie’s other side. They both shifted a bit, John stretching out and digging his feet under the bunched-up sheets at the foot. The pillow definitely smelled of Sherlock’s vanilla shampoo and that smooth, woodsy scent that was distinctly his own; despite how sleek and city-bound Sherlock appeared, his smell had always reminded John oddly of an untamed, rain-soaked forest far away. Having seen the Holmes ancestral house and the countryside it inhabited, he supposed that explained it.</p>
<p>He realized he was drifting a bit into sleep and pulled himself out of it; his eyes settled on Sherlock, who hadn’t moved yet despite his claim of an email that needed sending. The other man wasn’t looking at him—wasn’t looking at anything in particular, really, his gaze bleary and unfocused and half-lidded. And damn that blackmailer email; the client wasn’t worth rushing for anyway and Lestrade would definitely appreciate a long weekend without having to worry about the paperwork quite yet.</p>
<p>John leaned down and unknotted the bedclothes at the foot as best he could, draping the sheet lightly over himself and Rosie; then he reached across and, with one solid tug, extracted Sherlock’s blanket from under his legs to cover the other man more effectively.</p>
<p>Sherlock’s gaze followed his movements with a drowsy curiosity, but without a sign of protest for what John was doing. In fact, once he was nestled securely under his blanket with half his face smooshed into the pillow, he gave a quiet sigh of utter contentment that was probably involuntary.</p>
<p>John lay back down on the other pillow and shoved one hand underneath it; he was higher up, so that he could look down and see both the other occupants clearly.</p>
<p>Sherlock met his gaze, and John smiled at him faintly as he felt sleep encircling him in the comfortable silence, letting him know hopefully with his manner that it was okay, that Rosie would probably feel safer and sleep better with both of them anyway, and they probably both felt the same if they were honest.</p>
<p>Sherlock didn’t quite smile back. (He gave it a good go, but he was somehow more exhausted-looking after his mental work for the day than John was and didn’t really manage it.) But his eyes softened just before they drifted shut and he sighed again, this time cocooning himself deeper into his blanket.</p>
<p>John looked from one to the other slumbering face and closed his eyes too, feeling an odd sort of victory for his part in taming what had once been a monstrous case of rejection of companionship and love of any kind. He wasn’t sure even Sherlock could have predicted how things had developed after their first meeting; in fact, he was positive he couldn’t, because the man Sherlock had been back then wouldn’t have ever believed he’d become what he was today. Sherlock’s predictions were almost always right, but (despite his Theory<sup>TM</sup> about simultaneously connecting to all streams of logic at once or whatever it was) he couldn’t predict perfectly <i>every</i> time, and thankfully not when it really mattered.</p>
<p>On that subject, just as Sherlock had predicted, after he failed to send the all-important email by the end of that Thursday the Brixton blackmailer case didn’t get solved until the following Tuesday. But nobody was really bothered about it—not Lestrade, who just shrugged when the email finally did come on Friday morning and shelved it for the weekend, or Sherlock and John, who’d slept soundly all that previous afternoon.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for reading! x</p></blockquote></div></div>
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